Weeks after Easter
 
cream-white dahlias are blooming
 
in an old brown pot.

 
 

The open road calls
 
a few weeks after Easter—
 
I unfold my map.

 
 

On a narrow road
 
a few weeks after Easter
 
sorrow calls my name.

 
 

Weeks after Easter
 
alleluias keep spilling
 
from the wilderness.

 
 

With pen and paper
 
a few days after Easter,
 
I wait for a song.

 
 

My brother, long dead,
 
was not raised to life again
 
on Easter morning.

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
a few days after Easter
 
your first egg hatches.

 

 
 
 

On Easter Monday
 
I plant a few melon seeds
 
in a sun-warmed place.

 

 
 
 

Little brown sparrow,
 
have you composed a new song
 
for Easter morning?

 

 
 
 

As if by magic,
 
on the day before Easter
 
my pear tree blossoms!